


Memory Transferal Form

by ElementarySaidHe (SupposedToBeWriting)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amnesia, Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Humor, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post Almost Armageddon, Takes Place Almost Entirely in Aziraphale's Bookshop, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 19:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20263402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/ElementarySaidHe
Summary: A short time after the Almost End Of The World, Aziraphale (if that is indeed his name) finds himself waking up (if he was indeed ever asleep at all) on the floor of his bookshop (if he is aware of what a bookshop and the concept of bookshop ownership is) with no memory of who or what he was. Although he is clearly a human, because certainly if something looks, acts, and quacks like a human, surely it is one -- who is he, and who is this strange man barging into his bookshop claiming that he's an angel, of all things?





	1. Prologue

When Aziraphale woke up on the floor of his bookshop, he was certain of only three things in the universe.

One, there was a lump on the back of his head that was quite painfully swollen.

Two, he had a deep understanding of a particular dialect of Ancient Greek (spoken primarily in the ancient city of Aegium of Achaea from 350 – 250 B.C.) and Classical Latin (spoken primarily by a few eloquent orators near Latium in the early A.D. years, and certain strategic game enthusiasts in modern times).

Three, he was certain of nothing else in the universe.

He leaned up from his position, staring around at the cabinets and cupboards and shelves full of books. A stack of texts was strewn about in front of him, and a few more slid off his lap as he stood wobblily. The room was dark; he couldn’t say for certain whether it was day or night outside. Yet, somehow, the room was _familiar to him. _

Home?

As if on impulse, he bent down to sweep the fallen books in a tidy pile. He didn’t understand the scribbly, elegant text written on them, but surely they had been important if he’d been carrying them before his fall. Most of them were clearly quite old. A few had broken their bindings during their freefall.

They seemed so _familiar, _though. His finger stroked along a cover, wishing nothing more in the world at that moment than to understand what it said, and suddenly, a loose translation began to weave its way into his mind. For the life of him, he didn’t know if he was making the entire thing up, out of a desperate attempt just to know. Then again, he had no idea why he would imagine _Botticelli’s Prophecies of End Times And Artistic Portfolio _if it wasn’t, at least, a little bit true.

“Oh, dear,” he mumbled to himself, placing the stack of books down on a nearby table. He had no idea about his _filing _system or where he would even begin to sort them. More importantly, the lack of identity was beginning to impress upon him. This was certainly an issue, not being able to remember who he was.

He reached one hand in front of him, twiddling five fingers against one another. _What _was he, even? He was so … pink, except where he wasn’t. And there was _hair. _Unlike the title of the book, no answers came to him when he asked himself who he was.

At least he was fortunate enough to be in a room full of books that could potentially hold the answer.

Eighteen hours passed of Aziraphale pulling books off the shelves and then, when he was done, politely replacing them in their previous locations. He didn’t fancy himself a frustratable sort of fellow, but he couldn’t help but imagine that if whatever authors of these these books had actually written something _useful _instead of fanciful apocalypse hypotheses_, _he would not be in this entire mess still.

The translations became easier as he read, but he found nothing but prophecies of the future, artistic interpretations of the End Times, and occasionally, the odd catalogue about book collecting. That did nothing for him. He had no time for doomsdays _or _bibliophilism right now. He wanted to know who he was and couldn’t give a whit if the world ended tomorrow. His interpretation of ‘the world’ was very loose, as it stood.

It didn’t seem entirely unlikely that the world only consisted of this one room, which, coincidentally, was how certain humans lived all their lives.

As he made his way around the book-filled room, though, he came upon a window. He struggled with the latches for a moment. How _dusty. _Did he ever let air in here? As he pulled it back, Aziraphale experienced Earth for the 2nd first time, though he didn’t know that. His first first sight of Earth had been Eden – lush, green, with a lion curled up next to a lamb and a songbird tweeting the very first song that ever existed on Earth.

Now, for the second first sight, he saw Soho.

How dreary it was.

Although something bright and cheery shone down from up above (the _sun, _Aziraphale recognized dimly, enough of the doomsday books had explained that it was going to fall down to Earth and roast them all someday), thick clouds covered the sky. Buildings rose above the skyline, advertising this and that shop or residence, but above all, Aziraphale saw other _people. _

They were like him. More or less. Some were taller or shorter or thinner or fatter or had ginger hair or no hair at all, but they looked _like _him. He felt, to his core, that he was _like _them.

He had suspected he wasn’t alone in the world, giving the prodigious amount of books in the room. Unlikely that he had somehow authored them all. It was somewhat reassuring to know for certain, though.

Perhaps they would know _who _he was or _what _he was, given that they were clearly of the same stock. But, Aziraphale noted with a wrinkled nose at the pile of books he had just read, it was also entirely likely that they were just as unhelpful of the authors of these _daydreams. _

He would be better on his own, for the moment, until he received more answers. He closed the curtain.

There was another item of interest in the room. A gray device, thick and boxy, but no pages like a book. There was a flat surface in front of it with a multitude of buttons, each displaying a letter of the English alphabet. Aziraphale felt as if his English was decent enough to communicate with this device -- surely it was meant for some sort of communication. Why else would the buttons be there, if not to communicate?

He sat in front of it awkwardly and sunk into the plush chair in front of the desk. A notebook filled with various figures and numbers sat next to it, clearly well-maintained. Aziraphale ignored that for now. Arithmetic was a hurdle he was not going to cross today. Aziraphale stared at the blank screen, then at the buttons, then at an empty mug of something that smelled faintly chocolate-y, and then back at the screen again.

Another eighteen hours passed before Aziraphale managed to figure out how to pull up a search function. Given that his three known things had only ballooned to a few dozen, though, he was very proud of himself.

Perhaps someone lived inside the computer to answer his questions. Or perhaps the message was sent somewhere else, where they would answer his questions. _Or _perhaps the computer itself was a living being. The end bit was really the same, he supposed. He hovered, his hands over the keys, before typing in a polite query.

_Who am I? _

After an afterthought, Aziraphale added: _Please and thank you, sir and/or madam and/or other. _

What he received was a list of links concerning self-actualization, self-fulfillment, and self-improvement. It sounded rather like something would say when they didn’t know the actual answer, and Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at the computer. “If you don’t know what I am, you can just say. I hardly need this motivational faff,” he criticized, before he grew meek. “I apologize, dear boy. That was uncalled for.” This device was trying its best, after all.

But the device didn’t respond. Right, he had to type again. Aziraphale tried a few more phrases.

_What am I?_

_What’s outside? _

_How many are outside?_

_Now look here, Mr. Device. I’ve been very polite with you, and I think you know precisely what I’m asking for, and I don’t think you know the answer, so I think it’s very rude of you to not just come out and admit it, because there’s nothing wrong with admitting you don’t know something, after all, I certainly don’t know, but it’s very rude to just leading me abou – _

He ran out of space on the last one.

Perhaps it wasn’t the answer that was the difficulty. Perhaps he wasn’t asking the right question. He needed more … words.

_Book of words, please. _

Which led him to something called a dictionary. Ah, _now _the computer was speaking his language, more or less.

He spent thirty hours reading through the pages, one at a time, trying to find _something _that seemed like him. He hesitated at terms that seemed technically accurate but too vague (_being, soul, creature), _terms that he supposed technically described _parts _of him but not the whole (_bookish, fussy, eloquent), _and terms that he could absolutely positively rule out (_dog, dentist, serial murderer)_.

If he hesitated on ‘_angel_’, it was only to scoff somewhat. _A spiritual being believed to act as an attendant, agent, or messenger of God, conventionally represented with a wings and a long robe. _

_Well, _Aziraphale noted smugly, that was something he could cross off the list. While loosely defined as a ‘being’, he most certainly did not feel very spiritual, nor had he ever spoken to this God person, nor did he have wings, and his jacket could hardly be qualified as a ‘robe’.

He stopped in the middle of the _H _section.

_Homo Sapiens. _Well, that sounded very nice. An intelligent man. He didn’t want to flatter himself too much, but he like to think he was somewhat intelligent. ‘Man’ was something else, indeed, but he read further.

_The species of bipedal primates to which modern humans belong, characterized by a brain capacity averaging 1400 cc and by dependence upon language and the creation and utilization of complex tools. _

“Yes,” he muttered to himself, moderately overwhelmed. “Best start one at a time, shall we?”

First of all, _bipedal. _Easy enough to surmise. Aziraphale leaned out of the chair to stare down at his feet, wiggling his toes within their shoes. Yes, definitely two of them. Ten toes, that seemed far more than necessary. But two feet. Check.

He hardly knew his brain capacity, though, and without access to sufficient sharp tools to access his sore skull, he would have to take that one as assumed fact. He eyeballed his head in the nearby mirror. Well, it _looked _sort of in that range, surely. Check.

Dependence on language. Bookshop. Check.

Utilization of complex tools? Who was to say what was _complex, _really? This seemed plenty complex, this computer business. Check.

Now, the last term, the term that he had skipped over because he didn’t quite know what it meant. He searched the ‘P’ section. _Primates. _There were multiple definitions there, and Aziraphale’s brows furrowed in concentration. One at a time.

One definition included a reference to a species that used their hands, varied locomotion, and social interaction and cultural adaptability.

Well, he did all that. He had been using his hands to type, he had loco-moved himself right over to this computer, and he’d been interacting with a computer for absolute ages, now, it felt like.

The other definition termed a primate to be a chief or a leader.

Aziraphale wondered what made a chief or a leader. Perhaps a chief or a leader was simply someone who did the whole ‘primate’ thing very, very well. He didn’t suppose he had a lot of ambition, the idea of the corporate ladder wasn’t very enticing, particularly when the job wasn’t very well defined.

Still, who was to say that he didn’t do those primate-y things very well? He was very good at moving and using his hands and interacting with this computer. Still, being a leader was quite a lot of responsibility that he wasn’t sure he was totally prepared for. Top of the ladder? No, no. He was nowhere _near _ready.

“An assistant leader,” Aziraphale muttered to himself. “Perhaps that would be good. Not quite at the top, but not quite at the bottom, either. Probably decent benefits. Assistant leader to the primates.”

Check.

As he finished the definition, Aziraphale simply leaned back in his chair and stared blankly at the computer. Oh, right. He couldn’t be _rude. _He went back to the search function and typed again.

_Thank you ever so much for your help! I have to leave now, busy business. Goodbye. _

That answered his questions, and it had only taken the better part of several days. Aziraphale didn’t question his lack of hunger or thirst or even his need to breathe as odd – that wasn’t, after all, in the definition of human.

He stood up from his chair, thoroughly satisfied with himself. Now that he had a sense of identity, he could return to work. Assistant leader to the primates did something, but he didn’t really know what. Surely the actual leader would tell him soon enough. For now, he could focus on his own little part of the universe. Cleaning up this bookshop.

“I am a human being,” Aziraphale hummed to himself in a sing-song. “Assistant leader to the primates.”


	2. Chapter One

Crowley wasn’t _pissed off. _

No, why would he be pissed off? It wasn’t like they’d make a formal agreement after the Almost Armageddon to talk to each other more often. Before everything had gone to hell (almost) , it wasn’t like they talked to one another on a daily basis. They had business to do. People to see. Sins (or not-sins, in Aziraphale’s case) to conduct. Making plans was hard. 

Sometimes it got awfully busy, especially during holidays, and there had been that time when he’d slept almost an entire century away. Going long-distance for a bit wasn’t unusual, and they’d made time for dinner dates enough.

Still.

Save an entire world with a man, and you’d think you’d get a _phone call _every once in a while.

It had been a week since they’d last lunched at the Ritz, and then nothing. What in the seven hells (inaccurate, but Crowley was optimistic for the potential for construction) was Aziraphale doing that was so important, he couldn’t even bother Crowley?

He wasn’t going to go in the front door, Crowley told himself as he drove in the Bentley. Cars zigged and zagged out of his way, with the occasional postbox doing the same. He wasn’t going to go barging in the front door, because that was the actions of an angry person, and he wasn’t angry. He was just doing a wellness check.

And, like any wellness check, he was going to sit outside in his Bentley until Aziraphale noticed him and came out to tell him off about idling in the street (_the pollution, Crowley, have some decency!) _

He didn’t even realize he’d been irrationally paranoid about the state of the shop until he pulled up, saw that it was not on fire, and felt his shoulders relax against his seat.

It was irrational to think it _would _be on fire. Aziraphale was very responsible, and the last time had been a bit of a fluke. That he couldn’t shake the image of Aziraphale’s pride-and-joy collapsing into cinders was something, though.

He supposed it had been … rather a lot to deal with. All the more reason why Aziraphale was acting entirely selfishly by not calling him so Crowley could _pretend _to be annoyed at his clinginess.

Yet, the lights were off in the shop. The curtains were drawn. The door was latched shut. It was in the middle of the bloody day; Aziraphale usually had the decency to at least put up the façade of an actual bookshop. It wasn’t when he usually took lunch, either. Crowley’s lips twisted into a grimace.

That bloody angel had left London and _not _told him?

_The nerve. _Crowley reached for the phone in the car. He thumped against the back of the seat hard, sulking.

“Aziraphale,” he spoke casually, leaning back against the seat as he stared at the bookshop. “It’s been an age, feels like. What do you say that we go get a bottle of wine and some poutine later? One of my agents – or maybe it’s one of yours, who can remember these days – has a lead on a book that you might want to know about. Give me a buzz. _Ciao_.”

There, he thought to himself smugly as he ended the call. Aziraphale was going to come back to his shop, listen to the message, and be _very, very _guilty.

In that moment, he had every reason in the world to drive off. Go back to his apartment. Knock over a rubbish bin. Fatten the ducks in the park and alter their migration patterns irrevocably. Aziraphale obviously wasn’t home. He was out scouting for a book, or he was up at Tadfield chatting with the Antichrist, or Them, or with the witch, or with the witchfinder (retired), or with that funny boy with the awful car.

Or Hell was tearing off his wings one feather at a time.

_No. _They’d dealt with that already, Crowley decided, and besides, he would _know. _He would know if they’d managed to catch up with him, or if Heaven itself had dragged him out of this plane of existence.

He would know. There was no reason to worry. No reason at all. He was _not _getting out of this car to check.

Crowley got out of his car.

He kicked the curb in frustration.

At the front door of the bookshop, Crowley wondered whether he’d do the _polite _thing or the _fast _thing to enter. He didn’t even wonder for a full second, but it was really rather proof of Aziraphale’s influence that he even wondered at all. With a flick of his hand, the lock of the door slid open and Crowley stepped inside.

Aziraphale was in. He was standing there like a deer in headlights, as if he didn’t realize that the front door could actually _open. _Crowley stood there in the doorway, the light streaming in behind him and lightening up some of the bookshop. He crossed his arms over his chest and _glared. _How dare his lover _not _be getting torn apart by Heaven _or _Hell.

“Oh,” the angel stated, facing Crowley with a large stack of books in his arms. “I – I’m sorry – “

Crowley was now pissed off.

“You ignore me for a week, you lock up your shop, and now you can’t even be bothered to pick up your answering machine? I see where _I _stand with you.” As he spoke, Crowley gestured to the referenced device. He could see the button blinking, a quick _on-off-on-off _of an unanswered message.

Aziraphale blinked at him stupidly, turning towards the machine. “But I did answer. I spoke at the device, and you didn’t reply.”

It was such an enormously dimwitted statement that Crowley was stupefied.

Contrary to popular belief, stupidity wasn’t a creation of Hell. While Crowley found most of his fellow demons to be _incredibly _stupid, he had no idea who had thought up the trait first, Heaven or Hell. There was also the issue of most humans, and most animals for that matter, being _incredibly _stupid. In fact, the only _not _stupid person he’d ever met was Aziraphale, and that wasn’t the lovesickness talking. With only one person out of billions and billions, Crowley was content to say that Aziraphale was a rounding error and stupidity was an inevitable symptom of being alive.

So, when the only not stupid person he’d ever met had just said something extraordinarily stupid, Crowley was, at first, certain that he’d misunderstood. He stood there, struck dumb himself.

“I actually have a bit of a question at the message, so perhaps good that you came in, dear boy.” Crowley was still frozen. “You said ‘_Aziraphale’ _on the message, like it’s some sort of … greeting. I’m trying to find it as a reference, but I haven’t had much luck.”

Aziraphale was staring at him with polite warmth, as if they were two eccentric dear old friends who could confide in each other about all of life’s uncertainties.

That didn’t mean much. That had been their first conversation, too.

And now this was their 2nd first conversation, not that Crowley knew that.

But he was getting the idea.

“It’s your name,” Crowley could barely manage to stutter out. “Your … it’s what I call you. Your name.”

“My _name. _I have a _name!” _Aziraphale beamed at that and chuckled as he put the books down. “I didn’t even think that I might have a name. I’ve been so worried about _what _I am, you see, I hardly even considered – a name. How dear. I’ve just put a kettle on, would you like any?”

“Uh. Sure.”

“Top!”

As Aziraphale went to the little stove he kept near the back of his shop, Crowley followed after him, feeling dumber than he’d ever been. “So, my name is Aziraphale, is it?” He asked. “That’s a bit of a fussy thing, isn’t it? Very particular. _Aziraphale,” _he intoned ominously. “Ooh. Terror.”

Crowley’s throat was dry. He swallowed, watching Aziraphale start to pour water for tea. For a second, he considered an imposter, but this _was _Aziraphale. “You said, what, what you are. What are you?”

“Well. Same as you, isn’t it? I apologize, maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to assume. It’s simply that we look alike. Not _alike, _you’re a bit taller and you’ve got – glasses on, and your hair, and you speak differently.” Aziraphale clucked his tongue. “Would you believe I woke up _only _being able to think and speak Aegian Greek and Classical Latin? I mean, my word. How archaic. The English is coming back to me, now. Bit of Italian. _Buongiorno,” _he added in a terrible accent, still in very high spirits for a man who had clearly (a) gone out of his mind or (b) let his mind go on holiday.

He had no time for this. Crowley strode forward and seized Aziraphale by his shoulders, spinning him around to face him. He moved his hands up on either side of Aziraphale’s face and glared down at him intently.

The scalding water he was holding in the teacup sloshed out to splash him. Before Aziraphale had time to feel the pain, Crowley performed a quick miracle of his own. The water didn’t even reach the floor before it disappeared.

“What _are _you?” Crowley asked.

“Oh. Sorry, yes, you did ask.” Aziraphale shrunk somewhat in his grip, succeeding nothing but slightly squishing his cheeks in Crowley’s hands. Crowley didn’t know if he was scared, before figuring … well, if a strange man broke into _his _flat, and started to get grabby, he’d be a little uncertain, too.

A little uncertain as to whether he should defenestrate or immolate him.

But, Aziraphale was always the nice one. He moved his hands back to Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale cleared his throat to proudly make his announcement.

“I am a human being,” he announced, “And furthermore, I am assistant leader to the primates.”


	3. Chapter Two

The cup of tea had grown cold beside him, but he paid no mind. Crowley was sitting on the couch, his face firmly planted in both of his hands. The action had awkwardly shoved up his sunglasses so that they rested somewhere around his forehead.

The angel thought he was a human.

The angel couldn’t remember anything.

The angel couldn’t remember _him. _

Under normal circumstances, if they were the average sinful demon and divine angel, it would be a reason to rejoice. An angel who thought he was a human would behave as a human would and corrupting him would only take a tick.

Crowley had never really been the corrupting sort, though. He preferred giving the humans the _opportunity _to _be corrupted, _and if they rose to the occasion, they damned themselves because of their own perseverance. Something to be proud of, he told them.

And yet, given he’d been with the angel for near-on six thousand years and loved him and believed in him more than existence itself, it was …

Upsetting.

He heard the scrape of the teacup next to him being dragged across the table. Aziraphale was taking the tea away. For the best. Crowley didn’t even begin to know how to sort this out, and the urge to flee was getting worse.

Then, the angel was sitting next to him on the couch and placing a hand on his knee.

“I know this must be very upsetting,” Aziraphale soothed hesitantly, clearly blown far out of his depth. “We … knew each other, yes?” (Here, Crowley scoffed.) “But there’s nothing to be upset about. I’m figuring it out, and soon, I’m sure I’ll be back to normal. I only knew three things when I woke up, and now I know quite a bit more. See?”

Crowley didn’t move his hands from his face and mumbled despondently into his palm. “What did you know when you woke up?”

“That I didn’t know anything other than those three things. The Greek and Latin, secondly. And one … “ The angel trailed off, so long that Crowley took his hands off his face, reapplied his sunglasses, and looked up at him. Aziraphale was pressing a hand on the back of his head and wincing.

It looked painful. Huh. Aziraphale must’ve passed out, which was unusual itself for an angel. Usually, only demonic things could really render an angel immobile – and vice-versa, for him. It was hard to perform miracles when you weren’t conscious, something they’d learned after a few major drinking benders. Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder to inspect it, and then waved his fingers over it with a flourish.

The bump healed.

“There,” he grumbled. “Back to normal.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tenderly pressed at it in surprise. “Thank you. How did you … ? Can all humans do that?”

“No.”

“Then how?”

“I’m not human.”

“But you _look _–”

Enough of this, Crowley told himself. Aziraphale had to learn sometime.

At his piping up, Crowley took off his sunglasses to glare forthrightly at Aziraphale, his pupils dilating. A forked tongue flicked out in a barely concealed hiss. He needed to make a _plan, _not explain Divine Theory 101 to a cracked angel. “The dictionary didn’t say anything about what human eyes looked like,” he answered apologetically. “Is that meant to be unusual?”

“Yeah, well. Humans don’t have eyes like that. Blue or brown or green or hazel or if they’re feeling fanciful, they’ll say they change color in the light.” Crowley’s tongue flicked out again, annoyed. This was meant to be a _reveal. _Perhaps if he’d just turned into a gigantic snake, that’d be more dramatic. “Not like this.”

“Then what are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A demon.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Well, what’s a demon?”

“Satan’s worker bees.”

Aziraphale nodded as if he understood, and they passed a few moments in awkward silence before he asked, timidly, “And who is Satan?”

“God’s downstairs neighbor.”

“Oh!” Joy crossed his face. “I know who God is! Angels are God’s worker bees, according to this book of poetry I have. How funny, the duality of things like that.”

More _sensible _than _funny, _Crowley supposed, but the angel didn’t seem to be too upset about knowing so little about himself. That frustrated him. Why the hell did the angel have to be so damn _persistent _all the time? Why the hell did the angel never consider rolling over and _giving _up in _despair _and crying about how _unjust _the world was?

“It’s not funny.” He snapped as he stood, glaring down at him. “You’re not a human, Aziraphale. You’re an angel, and I’m a demon, and you’ve got – _Satan’s sake. _You’ve got 6000 fucking years of memory that’s gone missing! Can you stop acting like this is a _mild inconvenience!?_”

“Six thousand? That can’t possibly be right.” Aziraphale didn’t seem fit to disbelieve him and nonetheless shifted on his chair. “Also, an angel? No. Angels are messengers of God, and they’ve got wings, and – and a robe.”

“You _have _wings. And you were the most pleased man on Earth when robes went out of style for something a bit more stylish. Frankly, so was I.”

‘But I haven’t got any message.”

“Sure you do! Goodness and kindness and mercy for all – the same thing you’ve been prattling on about since _Eden.” _

Aziraphale’s expression turned jocular. “That isn’t a message. That’s just how you’re supposed to _act.” _

Crowley growled worse than a backfiring motorbike engine. “_Don’t start!” _

That seemed to shut Aziraphale up, but in a way that made Crowley feel guilty rather than triumphant. “Sit down, dear,” he urged, gesturing to the couch again. “We’re friends, you’ve more than implied that. For the past six thousand years?”

There would’ve been a time, thousands of years ago, where he would’ve scoffed at that. Friends? No, never, he’d never be friends with one of those stick-up-their-arse _angels. _They went around preaching and being generally intolerable and there was a reason why people might _agree _with angels more, but liked to _be around _demons.

That time had passed. And, more time had passed, and then he’d found himself in love with the angel for near-on two thousand years, and he couldn’t imagine a world where that didn’t exist.

Still, there was no proper way to announce to someone who had just recently learned he was an angel that they were approaching their 1,943rd anniversary.

“Yeah.” He flopped back down on the couch, leaning over his knees again. “Yeah, we are, angel. More than friends, really, we’ve known each other almost as long as we’ve existed. And I’ve got no idea how this could’ve happened.”

Aziraphale had a hand on his knee again and gave him a reassuring squeeze. This indicated to Crowley to look up at him, and he saw the warm hope that he intrinsically associated with Aziraphale, always. Love. _Seeping _from him. _Oozing. _Crowley thoughtlessly reached over to run a thumb over Aziraphale’s cheekbone.

“Then, assuming I take you at your word, and I’m some sort of angel,” Aziraphale continued, “Why don’t you feel in the important bits for me and we can try to work out what happened?”

Somehow, he felt something tug at his chest at the prospect of explaining his own best friend’s life to him. That was painful, and frankly more creative than any torture that Hell would ever design on its own.

He had been working on a theory that someone had taken away Aziraphale’s memories to torture him. To take away the only friend he’d ever _really _had in this cold, dark universe. The only demon that held that kind of creativity or _panache, _though, was him. So that was out.

“Okay,” he started, leaning back on the couch. Aziraphale’s hand didn’t move from his knee, and he was grateful for the contact, at least.

Even if he’d known the man for millennia, suddenly every fact that he knew about Aziraphale flew right out of his head. He knew everything there was to know about him, and yet, Crowley struggled to think of one simple fact.

Annoying, how that happened.

“You don’t like paisley. The pattern. Ehm, I quite liked it, back in the seventies and eighties, you know, and I think that was the most you’ve ever fussed about my clothing. Back then,” Crowley admitted lamely. “You love tartan, though.”

_Stupid. _Who cared? Aziraphale didn’t chastise him for it. Didn’t roll his eyes or even express a hint of annoyance. Instead, he chuckled softly, like tinkling bells. _Hell, _Crowley growled at himself, _Get ahold of yourself. All angels do that. It’s in the original design. Tinkling bell laughter. _

“I don’t like paisley. I like tartan. That’s something I didn’t know before. Two things. Thank you.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. Crowley moved forward, excited.

“You like all kinds of food, though. I’ve seen you try just about everything. Even if there’s things you only have once, you try to find something good about it, whether it’s the texture of flavor or – you’re a snob about it. An awful snob, really just the most irritating. But you’re nice about it.”

“An awful, nice food snob.”

“Yeah.’ Crowley felt as if he was getting better at this as he went along. He was not. “You usually drag me along, too. You’ve got decent taste in alcohol, though. We drink together a lot. After we saved the world, and did the Big Switch, we had a glass of wine at the Ritz that was an absolute ripper. I was going to invite you back for more, but you looked exhausted, so – “

“Sorry, I don’t meant to interrupt,” Aziraphale bolted in, the hand on his knee turning to rest against his shoulder. “What was that you said, about saving the world?”

“Stopping Armageddon. The end of it.”

“Oh. We did that, did we? When?”

“About a week ago. Hell was quite angry at me, and Heaven was quite angry at you. So what we did was, we switched physical forms for a bit, scared the hell/heaven out of them when they tried to burn us quite literally, and now they’re leaving us well enough alone. Big Switch. It was ingenious, actually.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale was speaking like a man who had clearly been given an announcement of immense significance, but had precisely none of the context required to actualize it. He blinked, instead. “Good, good. Sounds good. Er, productive.”

It was about then that Crowley realized that none of this was actually helping him.

“Sorry, you want more … immediate information, about you. Useful. Right, um, well.” Crowley made a popping noise with his mouth. “This is your bookshop, but you don’t actually sell anything in it. You … do good for people. We do things. You know. Sex. Sometimes.”

It was one hell of a way to mention that they were in a relationship, and the room went awkwardly silent. Aziraphale took his hand away from Crowley and sat with his fingers tapping at his knees. Crowley whistled a little and looked away.

Even at his age, Crowley was still learning general lessons to conduct his life. Some of these lessons were for convenience’s sake – don’t try for too many miracles, lest Hell get pissy, people don’t react well to a snake in a park tree, ignore the Piccadilly line after 8.

He had just added a new lesson: _do not admit to your amnesiac lover that you slept together regularly when he’s still trying to come to terms with his divine identity. _

Desperate to turn the tide of conversation, Aziraphale only nodded and gestured around the shop. “So, this is where I work?”

“Eh, I mean, _sort of. _You work for Heaven. God herself. This is mostly just a hobby. Heaven is where all the angels work, but when they’re not up there making stupid rules or judgements, they get sent down here to do good. You’ve been down here a while. You like it.”

They went silent for a long second, and Crowley wondered if the shock was starting to set in. Humans did that _so _often, and maybe Aziraphale wasn’t immune to it in this state. For a species that had spent six thousand years fighting against one another to determine if there was a divine being, humans really _didn’t _seem very appreciative when they found out that there was.

‘Course, he understood the other side of it. If humans knew for a fact that Hell existed, they’d all be working at soup kitchens and adopting stray dogs so as to not end up there.

And angels were just too nice to tell them the truth and take away that component of free will about it.

“If that was generally … you know, my place of work. Where I belong. Then do you think that they’d know what happened to my memories?”

His brain hit a delay in process, because everything turned into white-hot rage after the phrase ‘Where I Belong’. He smiled in a way that concealed barely restrained anger. Every ‘_s’ _syllable was drawn out slightly in an uncontrolled hiss.

“Oh, _no no no no no. _Angel, that’s where you’re wrong. You _belong _on Earth. We almost went to divine devil-damn war because you care about this water rock so much.” Whether he also cared about this water rock so much was something he would never admit to himself. “And if anyone tries to keep you up there, they’d have to go through me _and _you.”

The rest of what Aziraphale said caught up to him. Oh. That was good, because Aziraphale was looking a little hurt.

“But … that’s not a bad idea,” Crowley continued, to which Aziraphale brightened up. “They’re the angel experts, after all. If someone hit a bad switch or something, they’d know.”

“Splendid. So, what do we do, now?”

His eyes rose to the scores and scores of bookshelves. Some of these books hadn’t been there before Nearly Armageddon, the colors too bright and the themes too juvenile for Aziraphale’s tastes. The important ones were still there, though.

And they only needed them _if _Crowley couldn’t nail it from memory.

From his good old white-wing days.

“What we’re going to do, angel,” Crowley started, licking his lips, “is ring up God.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit -- I just realized this hadn't formatted correctly!


	4. Chapter Three

“Blasted – “ Crowley hissed, tongue flicking out as he stuck his newly-singed hand under his armpit. He tried to finish the holy symbol on the floor, but when the chalk started to burn the other hand, too, he blessed loudly enough to cause Aziraphale to rush in from the back room.

They’d cleared out a corner of the bookshop in order to summon the divine. Crowley had tried hard not to think of the last time Aziraphale had summoned in here, when the shop had burned down and he’d been discorporated.

This was going to go better, because it was hard for it to go worse.

He had no idea if the angels would be helpful. They generally weren’t, but he had some demonic biases there. If he could find an answer, even, that would be great. Plan B was tracking down an angel and threatening hellish fury on him.

He didn’t want to do Plan B. So far, the only angel he’d seen since the Ritz had been Aziraphale, and Crowley was quite content to keep it that way.

“Here, take these. They’re for looking at the old books, I think,” Aziraphale offered him a pair of thick latex gloves. Crowley winced and shook his head. When he removed his hand from under his arm, he spied the dark burn marks that wrapped around his fingers.

“Not going to help. They’re sacred holy symbols. They’ll burn through just about anything mortal, for a demon.”

He was _not _looking forward to lighting the candles. He gave it a 50/50 chance of exploding in his face, quite literally. And the Latin incantation was going to make his tongue swell up something terrible, and it was generally going to be a very unpleasant few days after. He hoped he’d be able to make it through the summoning without throwing up or suffering from some sort of heart failure.

He was pretty sure that last bit was just something demons had told him to put the fear of the Devil in him.

He hoped so, anyway.

Even if it wasn’t, he had to do it.

This was Aziraphale. And while he’d never put the angel in a position of having to do so, he knew Aziraphale would do the same if Crowley needed it.

At least, he was pretty sure he knew. Sometimes, he was a little nervous about that fact, especially when Aziraphale got _really, _genuinely mad at him.

“Then you sit down and tell me what I need to draw.” Aziraphale threw the gloves to the side and gently pried the chalk from Crowley’s hands. He put a finger in a book, currently precariously placed on one of the stands around the bookshop. Crowley was pretty sure that it had once come from a church’s pulpit, which was why he felt faintly nauseated, standing so close to it.

Aziraphale, he decided grimly, was _very _fortunate that Crowley happened to love the hell out of him.

He examined the holy symbol for a second, before murmuring, “Oh, not too hard,” and began to get to work on it.

He wasn’t doing half-bad at it, either, despite being one of the most un-artistic people that Crowley had ever met. It didn’t help that the angel was very finicky about his appearance and didn’t enjoy mess. Art, in general, was messy. That was why Crowley enjoyed it.

“So, this God person,” Aziraphale asked curiously. “What’s She like?”

“You’re asking a demon what God is like.”

“I’m asking my _best friend.” _He paused uncertainly. “Or whatever we are.”

Crowley let out a half-hissy breath, collapsing back on the couch to put a hand up to his head. There was altogether too many divine items starting to gather in the room, and he needed a moment just to focus on himself. And, he was tired. Not tired in the human sense, but tired in the sense that sleep was _nice _and_ easier _than what he was doing now.

He'd never formally spoken to Her. But his opinion of her wasn’t high. You hang around a _few _bad people and that’s apparently enough for damnation. If he knew that was enough to do it, he would have made it some sort of spectacle.

Then again, if She knew that, by damning him, he’d be in a better position to meet Aziraphale and, six thousand years later, prevent Armageddon with him …

“Ineffable, really.’

Aziraphale hummed knowingly as he continued to draw. Crowley occasionally cracked open one eye to watch him crawl or drag himself across the floor to add a feature here or there. He was surprised at how _comfortable _he was in this bookshop, even with an amnesiac best friend and divine symbols all around.

He’d have to spend more time here. If only to prevent Aziraphale from losing his mind, and Aziraphale – the _real, whole _one, anyway – wanted to have the love of his life by him, now more than ever. Aziraphale had quietly mentioned that to him when he’d driven him home to his bookshop, and Crowley knew he’d never be able to strike that memory from his mind.

And he was sure Aziraphale would be secretly thrilled if some of the more persistent customers were frightened by a gigantic snake.

It really was the two of them and a half-dozen or so humans against everything, sometimes. Crowley figured they could start acting like it.

“I just light these?” Aziraphale asked with a matchbook in his hand, already reaching out to do so. “And then I … ? “

“Read the summoning incantation. If it feels like witchcraft, it is. Just witchcraft that’s been sanctioned divinely.” Crowley leaned up to flick through the pages of the book. He was trying to do it as fast as possible; his skin was blistering already. “You’ll like it. It’s in Latin.”

“Right.” Something was clearly troubling him. “Dear. I don’t mean to be _pessimistic, _but if this doesn’t work – if we still don’t know, or if I never – “

“_Angel.” _The optimist reassured him. “If that happens, I go and threaten to tear off an angel’s wings unless they give me answers. I have it _handled.” _

Aziraphale’s brow didn’t unfurrow. Hell, Crowley couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t trust him, either, given the circumstances. “Well. _Alright.” _The candles were suddenly lit, and Crowley plunged the rest of the room into darkness.

He stepped forward and held onto the angel’s upper arm tightly. Being so close to the summoning circle was less than ideal, but he’d be damned (_undamned?) _if he was going to let Aziraphale wander too close to it. “Word of warning,” he murmured, lips an inch away from the angel’s ear, “Whatever you do, _don’t _step into the circle.”

“Why?” Aziraphale responded, also in a whisper.

“Ehm, death.”

“Sorry about this, but what is death?”

“When you don’t live anymore.”

Aziraphale froze in his grip before nodding. He got himself settled. Crowley rolled his eyes as he straightened his bowtie and began reading from the book.

Crowley had to hand it to him. For a man who had been briefed about the existence of angels and demons in the past three hours, he _really _didn’t even twitch all that much when the circle started to shoot up a beam of light.

Aziraphale was always much braver, and much more dangerous, than anyone ever gave him credit for. Crowley felt his heart warm at the thought.

As Aziraphale ended his incantation, the light began to flutter, as if mimicking human voice patterns.

“_For what reason have I been summoned?” _

“Hi,” Crowley responded, drawing it out with a wave. _Hiiii. _“We had a very brief question for you, won’t take but a minute of your time, ah – “

“_I do not answer to demons.” _

‘Well, that’s rude,” Aziraphale murmured quietly beside him, to which Crowley poked him hard in the ribs. _You’re up. _He stepped forward, a little closer to the circle. “Hello, ehm, madam.” Crowley was absolutely certain they were going to get blasted into the lowest rung of Hell. “There appears to be a bit of an issue. You see, I don’t appear to have any of my memories.”

_“Memories?”_

“Yes. I woke up like it. The strangest thing. My, ehm, my – “ There, Aziraphale leaned away to whisper up at Crowley again. “Say, dear, I never really did get your name.”

Crowley debated on giving a false one, but once they knew it was Aziraphale asking … well, it wouldn’t exactly take a great leap of logic to fill in the rest.

“Crowley.”

“Right! Thank you. My friend, Crowley, and I hope to get some answers from you, about whether they might’ve gone. Whether they might be replaced, even.”

There was a pause in the summoning circle, but the voice replied strictly, “_I’m going to have to transfer you to the asset department. One moment.” _

“Oh! Delightful, thank you very much.” The light dimmed for a half-second, and Aziraphale twisted back to look at Crowley. There was something slightly pink about his face. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I think you _are _leaving bruises on my arm.”

Crowley winced apologetically, loosening his grip. He was dizzy. He wasn’t going to be much use like this, and he had to have full faith in Aziraphale.

Which he did, if he believed in nothing else.

“_Asset department,” _A gloomy voice intoned from the summoning circle. Crowley wondered if Heaven had their own version of unhappy phone operators. Hell certainly did. Knives and firecrackers were involved. “_How can I assist you?”_

_“_Hello!” Aziraphale started again, cheerfully. “We’ve just been transferred from God.” Probably God’s spokesperson rather than God, Crowley internally corrected, but that was just a matter of semantics. “My name is Aziraphale, and I have Crowley here with me. We – “

“_One moment,” _the gloomy voice broke in.

There was an awkward ten seconds pause.

“_I don’t have a ‘Crowley’ on file.” _

“Oh. That’s probably because he’s a demon. Apologies, should have said that first.”

The Asset Department seemed to hum for a second. “_Oh,” _it said, not with any particular alarm, but with faint annoyance at being tasked with something so clearly against regulation. “_I’m not permitted to help with demon assets.” _

“No, he’s just here with me. The real issue is that I don’t seem to have any memories. I woke up like that, I’m afraid.”

“_Were you recently discorporated or recently been terminated from angelic favour?”_

“I still have the favour, I – “ Aziraphale raised his head to stare at Crowley. _Have I been discorporated, dear? _The question was clear. Crowley nodded his head. “Yes. I was recently discorporated.”

“_What was the date of your discorporation?” _

“Oh, _bloody _hell, it was about a week ago, just before he thwarted fucking holy war. Have you got his memories or not?”

“_Crowley!” _Aziraphale broke in, giving him a half-shove. “That was uncalled for! He’s trying to help us.’

“He’s being a bureaucrat, so no, he isn’t. _We _invented those. I know how they work.”

“Well, apparently, you also invented being unforgivably rude, as well –”

“Yeah, we did, actually!”

Crowley knew he was being generally unpleasant, but his head was starting to throb, and he was leaning on the angel more for physical support than moral, at this point. Aziraphale seemed to note that, his expression shifting into one of sympathy. He patted Crowley’s hand and kept it laid over his fingers as he turned back to the beam of light.

“_I have not received a new corporeal body issuance notice from any angel by the name of Aziraphale at that time.” _

Aziraphale’s lips split pleasantly.

Both angels and demons were very skilled in acquiring what they wanted from customer service representatives. Angels were kind to a fault – hello, how are you, how has your day been, I understand entirely, people can be utterly demanding, I’m certain you’re performing admirably, thank you, you’ve been so much help – and either had the representative in tears from gratitude or desperate to get the simpering angel off the line.

Demons actually made a game of the entire business. One particular demon, in 1997, had finished a call in thirty-seven seconds after a particularly creative threat involving watermelons and orifices.

“I’m sorry, there must have been something done in error on someone’s end! Because I’m certain you’ll see that I _am _in my usual body, but I _don’t _have my memories. Completely forgivable, in the end, oversights happen all the time.”

Crowley wondered how long this would take. He blinked his eyes hard in an effort to keep the world from spinning. Damn _sanctity. _Satan had found a way to communicate with him without desecrating or damning _anything, _why did angels have to go through a holy telecom service?

_‘Did you fill a memory transferal form?” _

“A what?”

A long, thoroughly _un_-divine sigh filled the space for a moment.

“_When an angel receives a new body, they have the option of transferring their memories from their old mortal form into the new one.” _A pause. “_Some angels prefer to start fresh, without mortal temptations of the past weighing them down. If you don’t request a memory transfer, you have a week from your new body issuance before the memories are erased. You are given a default knowledge of Greek and Latin.” _

“Why the _hell,” _Crowley grunted, “Would you make him know _only _Greek and Latin?”

Aziraphale shot him a dirty look at his unnecessary interruption.

“_A basic knowledge of common languages so he is able to communicate_ _with mortals.” _

“_Sorry, _when was the last time you’ve been on Earth again!? You’ve given him an esoteric dialect of Ancient Greek and a ponce-y form of Latin that’s not been spoken for thousands of years!”

Crowley suspected that Aziraphale was now using the ‘ignore the demon’ approach, as he didn’t even register his intrusion before he spoke again. “Thank you for explaining. I know it’s a little past the deadline, but is there any chance you still have the memories somewhere around?”

“_Yes.” _

“Splendid. Would it be possible for me to have them back as soon as possible?”

There was a silence that stretched on. Crowley feared that they’d been inadvertently hung up on. His grip on the angel was tight again. If this _deskworker _didn’t give them exactly what they wanted in the next thirty seconds, Crowley was going to _siege Heaven, _and he didn’t even realize he’d been speaking all that out loud until he heard Aziraphale give a little gasp and apologized on his behalf, _he hardly means it, sir, he’s just irritable because of the whole ‘demon’ business, you understand. _

Finally, the voice returned.

“_The memories are being issued currently. Accept the holy light into your mind, and you will have them restored up until the point of discorporation, as well as keeping the memories you have made since.” _

“Thank you! You’ve been delightful. Really, truly a dear.”

Hang on a tick. Holy light? That didn’t sound very pleasant to be around if, were you represented in a children’s book on morality, you had goat hooves and horns.

The summoning circle flickered and from the emanating light came from a sphere. It emitted a glow in all directions, approaching Aziraphale. As it did so, however, Crowley received a full beam of the most sacrosanct light in existence.

At the height of the Crusades, a group of angels in a conference room had debated using it as trebuchet projectiles in the inevitable holy war.

It had been denied on the basis of having to construct a sanctified trebuchet for the sanctified ammunition, which didn’t seem in the spirit of things at all.

He flinched when he saw it, looked down at Aziraphale, let out a whimper, and collapsed.


	5. Epilogue

It’d been about two hours since Crowley had passed out. Aziraphale sat next to him patiently, holding his hand as he used his other to flick through the pages of a book. He was slowly making his way through a mug of tea, but drinking it required either dropping Crowley’s hand or putting down his book. It was a difficult decision.

Not to mention that he had to tidy the bookstore yet. There were still holy symbols chalked into the floor, although he’d blown the candles out for Crowley’s sake.

The lump on the couch started to shift, and the man of the hour groaned. His free hand went up to touch his face. “Oh, Mephist – mephie – meph – _fuck, _my head,” he muttered.

“Hold on just a moment, dear.” Aziraphale waved his hand over Crowley’s head, who sat up with a little more ease to look at him. In that moment, Aziraphale smiled warmly and patted his hand. “Are you feeling better?”

He could clearly see that Crowley was debating on lying for sympathy, but he eventually just nodded. “Mhm. Yeah. So.”

“My memories have returned,” Aziraphale announced softly, still marveling at it himself.

In retrospect, it made him feel very foolish about his behavior, but there was little to be done.

How silly he’d been, not going through the correct administrative pathways after he’d received his body back. He supposed, if he thought about it at all, that he had just assumed Adam had taken care of all of it – but he was only a boy, even if he was the Antichrist, and boys had very poor ideas of what bureaucracy entailed.

Entirely forgivable. No harm done. Aziraphale had his body back, and now he could remember everything, including being attached to the infernal man in front of him.

He dropped Crowley’s hand and leaned over to cup his face, warm and loving. “Thank you,” he uttered firmly. “I can’t imagine that it was easy, but you performed admirably, Crowley. I’m only sorry that you had to get a bit smited over it.”

Crowley’s eyebrows furrowed, and Aziraphale suspected he was going to chastise for letting it happen in the first place, or even make an idle threat about it happening again. Whatever he was going to say, however, he never got the chance. Aziraphale leaned forward to kiss him affectionately. His hand stilled in Crowley’s hair as Crowley put his own on Aziraphale’s collar, keeping him close.

The only part that _truly _upset him was how easy it had been to forget this. His love and friendship for the man sprawled out on the sofa in his back room.

“When you feel up to it,” Aziraphale noted quietly, “I think a bit of wine and poutine would go nicely, as you suggested earlier. I’ll come back to the shop and clean up the rest of the summoning area.”

“_Please,” _Crowley returned as he shot a scathing glance towards the symbols on the floor. He leaned up and threw his legs over the side of the sofa. With both arms, he stretched and yawned. A little dramatic, Aziraphale thought privately, but then again, dramatic was his forte. “To both. I know of a lovely little place. If it’s not too _common _for you, angel, that is. Hardly the Ritz.”

Aziraphale scoffed and donned his coat. Crowley reached for his glasses. “You don’t need to give me that warning. I can handle myself, and you very well know that.”

“Do you think I need to call ahead? Warn them that the assistant leader to the primates is coming?”

At the tease, Aziraphale blushed darkly. “You wouldn’t have made a much better conclusion in my place, you fussy old snake.”

Crowley had reached the front door and opened it, ready to head out into the Bentley. He seemed to hesitate and think for a moment, until Aziraphale joined him. “You know,” he remarked, “I really don’t think I could have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this after I finished the show, mostly as a fun 'what-if' wherein Aziraphale being given back his own mortal body was incomplete and woke up with no memory, and what routes he would take to find out what kind of person that he was. I also didn't particularly see Crowley being the patient, calm, caring type about it either, though he's never cruel about it, so it was interesting to see how that coincided here.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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